


b u r i e d

by SomeRainMustFall



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bombs, Broken Bones, Buried in rubble, Gen, Hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: Malcolm doesn't remember the explosion.×Bad Things Happen Bingo 'buried in rubble' square.
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664860
Comments: 41
Kudos: 181





	b u r i e d

**Author's Note:**

> ♡(ӦｖӦ｡)

Malcolm doesn't remember the explosion. 

He only knows what led up to it. He watched his team enter a building with SWAT. He stayed behind, just like he was supposed to, like Gil _told_ him to. He itched to go in, but he stayed, because he promised. 

And then he’d heard a noise. He’d slipped away from the rest of them to follow it, suspicious, and found their killer dropping himself down from the fire escape. 

They both stopped, staring at each other.

And then the man grinned. 

“I hope you all said your goodbyes,” he said. “Thirty seconds.”

And then he was gone, disappeared into the night, and Malcolm had burst through the door of the building, knowing something was wrong but not _what._

_Twenty seconds._

“Hey! Get out! All of you! Where’s Gil? It’s a trap!” 

_Fifteen seconds._

A SWAT member clotheslined him. Knocked him to the ground and yelled at him to get the fuck out of here. 

“This ain’t where you belong, you little shit! Get out! You’re fucking this up!”

_Five seconds._

Malcolm couldn’t breathe, but he forced himself back to his feet. It hurt. His chest ached. He was dazed.

_Three._

He ran.

_Two._

He shouted for them to get out again, and was again ignored. He shouted for Dani, for JT, for Gil.

_One._

Nothing.

**x**

He wakes slow. Feeling comes back to his fingers first, and he twitches them, reaches up to rub his eyes, starting to cough.

Feeling doesn’t come back anywhere else. That’s when he blinks, vision clearing to find he’s entirely trapped under a bent support beam and rubble from the building.

It's hot. He's soaked in sweat, covered in ash and grime, and the only lighting is distant orange.

Something's on fire. Maybe everything is. The smell of smoke chokes him, and then he spits out dirt that's collected in his mouth and hoarsely cries out, "Help!" 

No answer. 

Not great.

No. He doesn’t care about himself. He doesn’t care. What he cares about is—

“Gil!” 

It’s barely audible. The beam is compressing his lungs.

“Dani! J-J-JT!” 

Even less coherent. He hacks so violently he vomits, only just able to catch his breath as darkness clouds into his vision. 

They can’t be dead. They can’t be gone. 

No. That’s not an option. That _isn’t an option._

There’s not much he can do, though. He can’t call out anymore, because he can barely breathe, and that’s something important, something he has to focus on.

It’s hard. He drifts out of consciousness more than once, he’s sure. It gets hotter. He’s so damn thirsty.

He’s so damn _alone._

_Scared._

He’s scared. 

It’s not like it’s a foreign feeling, but God, there’s something about this panic, this situation, that is worse. 

Well, it _is_ worse. He’s never quite been trapped like this before, with fire clearly getting closer, with perhaps the entirety of his team—

Dead.

He’s going to be dead, soon, too.

His breathing picks up, and he moans, starting to push at the beam and crying out in pain when it seems to only crush him further.

“Oh, yes,” a too familiar voice purrs, “a panic attack is _exactly_ what you need right now.”

Snarling, Malcolm looks up at his father, looming over him with his hands in the pockets of his stupid cardigan. 

“By all means,” Martin goes on, “don’t control your breathing. That would be silly, wouldn’t it? You can clearly get as much air as you need.”

Malcolm closes his eyes. He braces himself against the beam, grounds himself with fingers against the steel, and then focuses. He inhales, and then immediately chokes it out and says, “I can’t—I can’t take a deep breath.”

“That’s strange,” Martin says, starting to round him like a predator would its dying prey; not an unusual metaphor in their relationship. He taps at the beam, and though Malcolm knows he’s not really there—thinks he knows—it seems to get heavier. “I can’t see why it would be like that. Perhaps you should try sitting up.”

“Thanks,” Malcolm wheezes. “I’ll get on that.”

Martin chuckles. “My dear boy...no need to be hostile. I’m here to help, since it doesn’t seem your friends are going to be.”

“They’re alive,” Malcolm snaps, and Martin’s grin gets bigger.

“I didn’t say they weren’t. But that _is_ your worst fear right now, isn’t it? Even trapped here, bleeding internally I’m _sure,_ broken leg and all, you’re more worried about them.”

“...My leg?” 

Martin nods, nudging the beam, and Malcolm cries out as a pain shoots from his left ankle all the way up to his thigh before it all goes numb again. 

“Look there,” Martin says, pointing. “Sure a lot of blood seeping out from under you...I’d say compound fracture of the fibula. You can’t feel it, can you?”

“A little,” Malcolm lies, and then groans and shakes his head. “No. No, I-I can’t. I can’t feel anything.”

“This is crushing you, my boy,” he says, as if it wasn’t obvious. “But what can you do, hmm? Nothing. You certainly can’t wiggle out. You can’t lift it. You can’t do anything but lie there, barely conscious. Shameful.” 

“Fuck off,” Malcolm grunts.

“Ooh, my _angry_ boy,” Martin coos, holding his hands up. “Did help your panic, though, didn’t it? You’re breathing quite calmly now.”

Malcolm doesn’t respond. Doesn’t want to admit he’s _right._ Not even if he’s not real. He will _never_ let Martin know that.

“I know it already,” Martin hums, and Malcolm curses. 

Right. In his head. 

Martin rounds him again, twice, and then crouches by his head and points over the pile of rubble where Malcolm can’t see. “The fire’s getting closer.”

“Great,” Malcolm says, resting his hands on the beam again. “I’ll be sure to avoid it.” 

Martin nudges his leg, and Malcolm screams. “Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Unless you want that _pathetically_ fragile body of yours to burn to a crisp, you need to find a way out of this.”

“Help,” Malcolm says, though he means to shout it, and Martin laughs.

“Plan B?” he asks, and Malcolm feels tears stinging his eyes.

“My _boy._ Is Plan B really to cry? Plan C, then. Get to it. Think.” 

“Can’t think straight,” Malcolm says, “hurts to breathe.”

“There’s no good plan, is there? You might be right...this might be the end. Even I’m not sure how to get you out of this. You’re a little too weak.”

“Want...Gil...”

“ _Gil._ What _is_ it about that man that makes him so much better than me?” Martin asks, leaning against the beam with his full weight, and this time reality follows. The beam creaks, pressure increasing onto him as more rubble falls from the ceiling, and Malcolm screams himself hoarse. 

“I mean really,” Martin goes on when Malcolm’s quiet again, eyes fluttering as he verges on unconsciousness. “I can’t see the appeal. He didn’t raise you from the age it matters, from _birth_. _I_ did.”

“You—ruined—me!” Malcolm manages to gasp.

“Here we go with the blame game again...you’re like a broken record, dear boy. And do I ever mean _broken_ …”

“Help—someone—help me—I can’t—breathe—”

“ _Bright!”_

Malcolm’s eyes open wide, and he draws as much air as he can into his aching lungs and cries, “Gil!”

“Oh, of _course_ he’s alive,” Martin mutters, sighing, leaning even harder on the beam, and Malcolm can suddenly only breathe in a wheezing staccato. 

“He—lp! He—he—lp!”

“Bright! Hold on! Keep making noise, I hear you, we’re coming!” 

He can’t. He can’t. Rubble smacks into his face, cuts open his cheek, falls into his mouth. The ceiling is going to come down sooner rather than later, and he’s going to die. 

He’s going to die sooner than that.

He can’t…

Fucking…

_Breathe._

“Gil,” he rasps, too quiet for even him to hear. 

He blacks out for an indeterminable amount of time. And then there’s something over his mouth and nose, a damp cloth, and Martin is shushing him, telling him it’s all going to be okay—

“Malcolm! Don’t move!” 

He stops struggles he didn't know he was giving. It isn't chloroform, and it isn't his father. He blinks up at Gil, and Gil ties the strip of cloth around his head, wearing one of his own. There’s dried blood covering his face, matted into his hair, but his eyes are bright, aware, far more aware than Malcolm can force himself to be.

“Breathe. Just breathe, kid.”

He realizes he's holding his breath, desperate to escape the chemical fumes that are only memories. He gasps, and it’s a bit easier; the dust and debris in the air catch in the cloth, leaving just oxygen to flow through him. Gil cups his cheeks, and Malcolm relaxes, just a little. 

“Gonna get you out of here, okay?”

“Damn,” comes JT’s voice from below, and he stands up, hovering over the beam. “This is gonna be hell to lift.”

Gonna die. Still gonna die.

But in Gil’s arms. He supposes that’s okay.

“Tried…” Malcolm says. “I tried…”

“I know. I know. Ssh. I know you tried. I heard you yelling before the blast.”

“D...Da...ni?”

“Alive. She wasn’t near enough to the bomb to get real hurt. And because I heard you and went back, neither was I. Saved my life again, kid. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm echoes. “I can’t...breathe.”

“Yeah. That looks heavy. Let’s get you free. I’m going to go stand with JT, okay? Just try to relax.”

He stands, and like he hadn’t _just told_ Malcolm where he was going, Malcolm gasps out, luckily too quiet to be heard. 

_Try to relax. Try to relax. Try to relax._

“Shit,” JT is muttering, softly, like he’s trying not to let Malcolm hear. “Alright. Grab that side. Yeah, like that. Ready? Alright. Three...two…one.”

They pull on the beam, and Malcolm shrieks. He thrashes his arms, slamming them against the beam, and Gil is beside him again, apologizing.

“Kid, kid! Kid, breathe, I’m sorry! I know it hurts, I know, but you have to stop moving. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I need you to breathe. Come on, take a breath.”

“Crushed,” Malcolm whimpers. “Hurts…”

“I know, Bright. Try for me.”

Malcolm does. He tries hard, and finally manages another breath. With it comes coughing, and something comes up, trickles down the corner of his mouth.

Gil wipes it away. He doesn’t comment on it, but there’s fear in his eyes, and Malcolm knows it was blood.

“Alright. It’s going to hurt, but we’re going to get you out this time. I promise. It’ll only hurt for a minute.” 

“Gonna pass out,” Malcolm tells him. “Can’t take it.”

“Try not to, okay? Try for me.”

Malcolm nods, because he just doesn’t have the air to talk anymore. He watches through bleary vision as Gil returns to JT’s side, as they prepare to move the beam again, and then flinches as the ceiling cracks above them, raining more rubble over them.

“Shit—lift, lift!” Gil shouts, and then they’re yanking on the beam, pulling even as Malcolm screeches in protest, and—

And then things go fuzzy.

He gets glimpses, in between the waves of blackness that wash over him. 

He feels hands under his arms, feels himself being pulled. He hears shouting, and sees Gil above him, then JT. 

He feels pain. So much goddamn pain. More pain than he’s ever felt before.

And then none. 

His head lolls back, and he can see the empty room he’d been trapped in.

It’s on fire in nearly every direction. Orange, yellow, red…

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Martin asks, tilting into view. “I can see the appeal of arson, can’t you? Bit hot, though.”

Too hot. So damn hot. 

He’s in JT’s arms, because Gil is shouting from further away about where they came from being blocked. The cloth around his face is pulled up to cover his nose again, but breathing is no less painful. It feels like he’s still under the beam. 

Maybe he is. Maybe this is a hallucination as much as Martin is. He can’t tell. 

“Stay with us,” JT murmurs down to him. “You hear me, Bright? Stay awake.”

Malcolm can’t. Not completely. He drifts again, and blinks when the heat is too much to ignore.

All he can see is fire. JT is running, holding him against his chest, and over his shoulder Malcolm can make out the shadow of his father amidst the flames.

He goes out again, and when he comes back there’s an oxygen mask being fit over his face, and the small, shallow breaths he can get become more relieving, more satisfying as cold oxygen flows down his throat, cooling the burn.

“Hey, kid,” Gil says, and though Malcolm can’t see him he feels Gil holding his hand, cupping his cheek. 

“You’re gonna be okay. Just fine. We all are. We’re safe.”

Gil rides with him in the ambulance, and only as they’re pulling into the hospital is Malcolm able to speak.

“How...many?” he asks.

“What?” Gil has never let go of his hand, even as the medic has sat beside him and tended to the cuts on his face. “How many what?”

Malcolm wets his cracked lips, fogging up the mask. “Died?”

Gil squeezes his hand tighter and doesn’t answer, and Malcolm’s eyes shut again.

He finds out later that it was four. 

Four died, because he didn’t get the news out fast enough. 

“They’re buried back there, my boy,” Martin tells him, standing beside his hospital bed as he lays with a broken leg and two fractured ribs. “You were so worried about _Gil_ that you were willing to let others die.”

“I tried,” Malcolm says, and Martin is gone when he looks.

He tried, didn’t he? 

He tried.

He always tries.

But he can never try hard enough to save them all. 

Perhaps he should have stayed buried, too.


End file.
